


Story Hour

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rainy day, a story or two, and a good friend at your side can make all the difference in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Story Hour

**Author's Note:**

> the story of Bucephalus has many incarnations, but this version I found while perusing [this site](http://www.alexander-the-great.co.uk).

Arthur watched the sky; the lightning wasn’t abating, and rain soaked the garrison from gates to privvies.

He knocked his forehead gently on the stone that surrounded his window and shivered when another blast of thunder shook the room. Jupiter was really turning it on.

Smiling self effacingly at his blasphemy, he turned back to his quarters and stared about the room. He wasn’t exactly fond of storms – which if any of his men found out about, he’d never hear the end of – but he did enjoy the quiet and solitude that sometimes came with the weather. He had several beeswax candles lit and one small aroma lamp that he had managed to salvage from the wreckage of his house when his mother had been killed.

He stood over it, inhaling the sweet but subtle scent that reminded him of childhood and grey green eyes that had crinkled at the corners. Touching the lamp lightly, he moved back to his bed, sat cross legged, and picked up a scroll that required his attention.

Despite repeated attempts, Arthur had never managed to get Lancelot to knock when he wanted to enter Arthur’s office, his rooms…the younger man apparently didn’t stand on ceremony. Arthur rolled his eyes at the expression on Lancelot’s face as he came inside, shutting Arthur’s door with his foot.

“Leave my lamp alone. And why are you soaking? It’s been raining for a few days – surely you noticed that?” Arthur spoke, his dry tone probably fueling Lancelot’s already foul mood. For some reason Arthur didn’t care.

Lancelot’s dark eyes grew even darker, and he veered from his intended target, Arthur’s leather chair, and sat on the covers of the bed next to Arthur, his clothing getting the bed, the covers, the furs, and Arthur himself wet. Arthur groaned and shoved at Lancelot’s shoulder, but the other man merely smiled a glittering, toothy smile and kicked his boots off onto Arthur’s floor.

He scattered mud everywhere. Arthur bit his tongue, then handed Lancelot a spare blanket, which he quickly wrapped about his shoulders.

“Why do you like that thing?” Lancelot jerked his chin at Arthur’s lamp. “It smells of those itchy purple flowers that grow all over this lovely land.”

Arthur shook his head, and wiped at his bare (now) wet feet. He stood and moved to the chest that lay at the foot of his bed, rummaged through it, and pulled out some dark fabric. He pitched it at Lancelot.

“Change before you ruin everything I own,” he requested. “And I like that lamp because it was my mother’s.”

Arthur didn’t expect that bit of news to change Lancelot’s opinion – but it did make the other man change the subject. He took the offered clothing and stood, stripping his tunic over his head and shucking off his wet leathers. Moving to the brazier, he stood as close to it as he was able, stretching his body and turning back and forth to heat both sides.

Arthur found himself drawn to the white flesh, his eyes roving over Lancelot’s lean shoulders and chest, to his tapered hips and strong thighs. A few scars dotted the other man’s body, one new one still pink and puckered, the slash marring the hard flesh that lay over Lancelot’s ribs.

Funny change from the skinny youth Arthur had met five years before.

He walked without realizing it to Lancelot’s side, and touched the new mark on Lancelot’s skin. He ran a delicate fingertip over it.

“Still hurt?” he asked quietly. The rain droned on, and Arthur felt as if the air was thick and filled with something he couldn’t see or touch; however, he also felt that if he moved again, the air would fight him, trying to hold him in place.

Lancelot shrugged, but his eyes slid shut, and he swayed toward Arthur’s hand. Arthur spread his palm over the scar, and cupped his hand gently. “It’s alright. One of many.”

Arthur laughed quietly. “Marring your flesh? Heaven forbid. Wouldn’t want to disappoint any of the ladies.” He rubbed the ball of his thumb over the pink scar, smiling inside at Lancelot’s physical reaction. Not that Arthur wanted different than what they had, but….

He cut that though right off, not wanting to dwell on things he had no control over. Lancelot was practically purring; the younger man did obviously enjoy being touched. Arthur brushed a light hand over his skin once more, and then returned to his bed, the effort to move difficult. His hand was still warm from Lancelot’s fire heated flesh, and he tucked it unobtrusively under his left arm.

Lancelot’s eyes lazily opened, and Arthur had to laugh at the disappointment in them. “Get dressed. You’ll be warmer when your arse isn’t hanging free for everyone to gawp at.”

One eyebrow rose haughtily, but Lancelot slowly pulled on the cast off trousers Arthur had provided him. “Who’s everyone, Arthur? I see you, me, and the brick walls. And that stinky lamp.”

Arthur’s cheeks pinked, but he ignored the comment. “What did you want, anyway? I know you have a brazier in your own quarters. And what were you doing outside?”

Lancelot carried the tunic Arthur had given him over to the bed, and flopped onto his stomach next to Arthur. He rolled the black fabric up, and lay his chin on the makeshift pillow. “Riding,” he grinned. “I’m beginning to wish I’d bought a mare for my war horse.”

Arthur smiled back at him; the enthusiam Lancelot exhibited when speaking of horses was infectious. Arthur liked his mounts, but he wasn’t on “speaking” terms with them as Lancelot appeared to be. It was fascinating to watch the other man ride as well – he and his horse seemed to be one entity. It made for an easier time in battle, Arthur was sure.  
“Why a mare? Is your giant of a black giving you trouble?”

Lancelot snorted and rolled his eyes. “What a fucking pissy bastard he is. So proud of himself. Won’t listen to a word I say, unless it’s hours after I’ve said it, and the timing’s completely wrong. Do you know I was about to have him over a fallen log, and the evil thing stopped dead in his tracks as I was ready to jump it? Knocked myself senseless landing on the ground face first. I swear he laughed at me when I got up.”

Arthur chuckled. “Perhaps a mare would have been a better choice. What did you name him again?”

Lancelot kicked his feet, shivered slightly, and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Diabolus. Fits. Fucking bastard.”

Arthur was surprised Lancelot had chosen a Latin name. “Why that name?” he asked, his knees rising. He wrapped his arms around them, and rested his chin on his forearms.

“Because, he’s the devil’s own, and something that evil deserves a Latin name.” Lancelot barked a laugh, and shook his head. He shivered again, and moved closer to Arthur. “You do realize your language sounds like it’s muttered from the depths of your Hell? It’s ugly.”

Arthur’s brows contracted. “And yours sounds as if it were made up on the spot. Not real, I’m sure.”

Another fierce grin. “Now you’re getting the picture, Castus.” He busied himself with finding the rest of Arthur’s furs, hugging them to his body. “Gods, it’s cold. This insufferable country.” He turned on his side, and shoved Arthur’s knees down, then proceeded to rest his head on them.

“Now you’re getting my pants wet,” Arthur groused, but in truth, he didn’t mind. “What did you want from me, Lancelot?” he asked again gently. “Besides free clothing, a warm body and talk of evil Latin horses?”

“Nothing. I was walking past, and saw your candles lit,” Lancelot asnswered, his voice muffled partly by Arthur’s leg. “You’ve been busy.”

Arthur winced, and made a face. “I know. I’m sorry. What have you been doing?”

A snort. “Riding, I told you. And drinking, and playing many, many games of dice with idiot legionaries who seem to think they can best me. I’ve won enough money this week to buy something when we next go to the village.”

Arthur shook his head. “Be careful, my friend. You’re playing a dangerous game with those men. They won’t take defeat lightly.”

“Arthur – please. You think they can do something to me? I may have to take that as an insult, considering I think I’ve already experienced most of Rome’s hospitality, thank you.” Lancelot’s words were light, but his face had closed in, and his tone was even and blank. Arthur knew that tone – and swore silently.

He was quiet, then tentatively raised a hand, setting it on Lancelot’s head, the fingers weaving into his hair. “You’re still wet.”

“I realize that,” Lancelot’s reply was in the same tone as before, but softer. “What did you do as a child when it rained like this?”

Arthur started slightly; the other man had never really asked him about his childhood. He knew who Arthur’s father had been, knew Arthur’s mother had been a Briton, but beyond that, Arthur didn’t think he knew much else.

“Different things. Mostly indoor chores, if my mother could convince me,” Arthur replied, a small smile on his face. “Or find me.”

“You didn’t line right up and do exactly what she asked like an obedient little boy? Mithras, Arthur. You’re spoiling my image of you.” Lancelot turned his head, then sat up, Arthur’s fingers falling out of his hair. He leaned back against Arthur’s wall, and pulled the covers with him. He eyed Arthur sleepily, his face content in the quiet of the room. “So, if you weren’t doing chores or learning to be a good Roman citizen, what did you do?”

Arthur let the comment pass, and raised his knees again. His trousers were still damp from Lancelot’s hair, but the fire was warming him quickly and he felt rather comfortable. He was sure it had something to do with the other man’s presence, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Lancelot that – Arthur wasn’t always as big a fool as his men made him out to be.

He thought for a moment, and then spoke. “We told stories, mostly.”

“Stories. What kind?”

Arthur pulled a face. “Jesu, Lancelot. It’s been forever. You expect me to remember?”

Lancelot tilted his head so his angular features were sharpened by the glow of the firelight from the brazier. Shadows hid his face, but Arthur thought he saw one cross the other man’s eyes. When he blinked, however, the dark look was gone.

“Yes,” Lancelot answered simply, his tone soft and serious.

Arthur sighed. “You irritate me, you know that?” Lancelot merely smiled benignly and gestured with a hand.

“They were mostly stories of myths, or stories of my mother’s people,” Arthur said. “There is one in particular I remember liking.”

“And?”

Shaking his head again, Arthur rested his chin on his knees. “You know of Alexander?”

“Alexander ‘the Great’?” Lancelot replied, a smirk peeking through his calm demeanor. “What an egotist. And yes, I’ve heard of him.”

“Egotist? Lancelot, the man singlehandedly conquered more nations than – nevermind,” Arthur broke off when Lancelot’s face got that pointy expression it did when he was beginning to get angry. “At any rate, do you know of Alexander’s horse?”

Lancelot shook his head no. “Not anything special, no. Why?”

“Well, that’s one of the ‘legends’ that my family liked to speak of on days such as this. I remember it better than some of the others, so I must have liked it.” Arthur’s eyes got slightly misty as he thought. “His name was Bucephalus.”

Lancelot laughed. “And what does that mean?”

“Alexander was Greek, well, Macedonian. He named the horse Bucephalus because his head seemed ‘as broad as a bull’s.’ According to the legend, anyway.” Arthur made a face. “If you’d rather I were quiet – ”

“No, no, Arthur. Go on. It’s nice to hear stories about a people that were more odd than you lot,” Lancelot answered, smiling. “Do tell. How did Alexander get this strangely named horse?”

“Well – Alexander’s father, Phillip, was given the horse by an acquaintance. The horse was skittish, unmanageable, and Phillip berated his friend, rather loudly I might add, that he had brought Phillip such a terrible horse. Alexander at the time was around 12, and upon hearing his father whinge on about this ‘untrainable’ horse, issued Phillip a challenge. He told his father he’d be able to ride him, and even more, would make him his war stallion.

“Phillip agreed to this, and Alexader went about the process of getting the skittish horse to know him. One of the main things Alexander had noticed about the horse was he seemed to be afraid of his shadow. So the young boy took the horse into the direct sun, where he wouldn’t be able to see his shadow, and thus was able to mount him, and eventually to train him to carry Alexander and to do whatever he wished. Phillip was highly ashamed, but redeemed himself by telling his son ‘look thee out a kingdom equal to and worthy of thyself, for Macedonia is too little for thee.’ According to Mestrius Plutarchus, at any rate.”

Arthur stopped, his eyes shuttered as he remembered. “Bucephalus died in battle, some say in Alexander’s final battle. He founded a city he named after his beloved horse, as well, as a token to Bucephalus’ memory.”

A crooked smile raised the corner of Lancelot’s mouth. “Are you certain you don’t like horses?”

Arthur coughed and cleared his throat. “Never said I didn’t. I just don’t have the rapport that you do. I always did like that story, though.”

“I see that,” Lancelot answered. “And I like it as well. Smart, that lad. He might have even been as good as a Sarmatian child.”

Arthur laughed. “Did your family put you on a horse from birth?”

“Before I could walk,” Lancelot said, his smile broadening. Arthur had a feeling he wasn’t exaggerating.

Arthur lay his knees back down, folding them under so he could face Lancelot. “I’d like to hear about them,” he stated softly. He put a gentle hand on Lancelot’s leg briefly, then took it away.

“Not now,” Lancelot said, the smile fading from his eyes. “I don’t think you’d want to hear that particular tale. I’m not sure I’d want to tell you.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing. Those two sentences were more than Arthur had heard Lancelot say about his lost family, ever – so he kept his mouth shut, and let it drop.

Thunder cracked across the sky, and despite his best intentions, Arthur jumped, which brought a braying snort out of Lancelot. “Afraid of rain, my friend? Gods, are you ever on the wrong assignment.”

Arthur wasn’t going to voice it, but right at that moment, with the candles lit and the lamp going and the brazier warming them, with his closest friend at his side and the world soft and dark, he couldn’t disagree more.

“So,” he said, eyes catching Lancelot’s and holding them. “Have you heard about Orpheus and the Underworld? That’s another one of my favorites. And it’s dark enough even for your sense of humor.”

~


End file.
